


Denial

by roane



Series: Defence Mechanisms [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>de·ni·al (dĭ-ni´il) n. Psychology. An unconscious defense mechanism characterized by refusal to acknowledge painful realities, thoughts, or feelings. (Recommended to read first two stories in "Defence Mechanisms" first.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to [roseredhoofbeats](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roseredhoofbeats) and [emmadelosnardos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos), not only for the beta work but also for listening to me whinge when John and Sherlock weren't behaving themselves properly.

_de·ni·al (dĭ-ni´il) n._ Psychology _. An unconscious defense mechanism characterized by refusal to acknowledge painful realities, thoughts, or feelings._

 

“ _ I'm staying right here, Sherlock. For as long as you want. I'm not going anywhere.” _

\--John Watson, “Sublimation”

 

When John comes downstairs the next morning ( _the morning after_ , he catches himself thinking), Sherlock is in a rare moment of stillness. He's leaning against the kitchen counter in his dressing gown, hair still sleep-mussed, eyes on the laboratory jumble on the table. 

“I think it's best if one of us leaves.” It takes John a moment to make sense of the words. He sounds as if he's just suggested curry for dinner. No, actually, on the rare occasions he makes a decision about food, he usually sounds more interested than this.

“What?”

“You heard me perfectly well.” Sherlock still isn't looking at him. “I think one of us should consider a new flat.”

“By one of us, you mean me,” John says, inner pugilist rising with both hands up.

“No, not necessarily. That might be more practical, but I'm willing to look as well.” He gestures carelessly with one long hand, as if he isn't tossing aside months worth of friendship, of... more.

“Sherlock, what happened last night--”

“This isn't about that.”

“Oh, of course,” John says. “It's purely coincidence that the morning after I get you off you decide to throw me out.”

Sherlock grimaces, lips twisting into a moue of distaste. “John--”

“Don't _John_ me, you prat. If you regret last night, that's fine. But don't sit there and act like it was fine, everything's great, but now you need to move out, John.”

John sees the first hint of some kind of emotion cross Sherlock's face, fleeting and indefinable, but there. “I did warn you when we first met. I don't—I don't do... _this._ ” Another random hand gesture, fingers twitching from John to Sherlock and back again.

“What, sex? Because a, that clearly wasn't your first time, and b, I already said it's fine if you regret it.”

“I don't _regret_ it,” says Sherlock, speaking slowly. “But I don't wish to repeat it.”

“Fine,” John says, and steps past him to start making the tea.

 

John spends the day looking for something more permanent than the locum work he's been doing. Sherlock is—who knows, at St. Bart's, probably. It never seemed so important to John before, to find something that was his and his alone. To make certain that he could make his way in London without a flat share—if necessary. He even, once or twice, surfs idly through rental listings. It does nothing but depress him. Baker Street is the only true home he's had since leaving the one he grew up in. And even if Sherlock is the one who decides to leave, John can't possibly afford 221B alone. Mrs. Hudson is a wonderful woman, but she's no fool. Besides, John's not sure he would want to stay in the flat without Sherlock. Sherlock is what makes Baker Street home.

The thought catches him off-guard. Shit. When did that become true? Ultimately it doesn't matter, because it may not be home for much longer. He swallows the disappointment, and realizes it isn't the first time he's done so. Odd how he's grown accustomed to disappointment over the past months.

He's been ignoring a text from Maggie all morning, short and to the point: _**Well?**_

“Sod this,” he mutters savagely and sends back, _**I'm looking for a new place to live. Got any ideas?**_

_** \--Shit. John, I'm so sorry. ** _

_** \--No, don't be. You weren't wrong. He's just a bigger arse than I could have imagined. It's fine. ** _

And it is. Absolutely fine. “Fine” is, in fact, John's word of the day.

_** \--Coffee?  ** _ she texts.

_** \--I don't need to talk about my feelings, Maggie. It's fine. It was a mistake, that's all. ** _

_ Probably the biggest mistake of my life.  _

He's tempted to phone Harry. If he does need to leave Baker Street in a hurry, she's his only realistic option, short of asking if he can kip on Lestrade's couch. And the notion of word getting around the Yard that Sherlock kicked John out for getting too handsy... Lestrade's is not an option.  _Shitshitshit. Why didn't I think of this last night?_ He knows why. He was too amped up on adrenaline and hormones, too eager to dive head-first into a dangerous situation with Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Again.

John rubs at his face viciously with his palms, stubble and callouses rasping against each other. Regardless of the long-term situation, he has to clear out for a bit. Right now, the thought of coming face-to-face with Sherlock makes him feel slightly ill. He considers Maggie, just a for moment. Absolutely  _not_ . He swallows like a man taking ipecac, and dials his phone.

“Harry? Listen. I'm in a spot, and I need a favour.”

 

Family is family, he supposes, taking the second cup of tea Harry presses on him. Her flat's in a right state, but compared to Baker Street, it's not bad. There are—he assumes—no hidden body parts ready to fall out of cupboards here. He wonders how long it will be before Baker Street stops being his standard idea of living.

“I assume you _are_ going to tell me what happened at some point,” says Harry, settling across from him with her own cuppa.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It's fine. He's just.. well, you haven't met him. He can be overbearing at times. Plus, I—ah, he said something about a friend coming over.” He's a bad liar, and that was a bad lie to choose. He has a sudden image of a statuesque brunette leaning over Sherlock to breathe in his ear, while John sat there and wished he were anywhere else in the world, even Afghanistan. She was dead now, but there could be others. Would be others, no doubt. He takes a swallow of tea against the twist of his stomach.

“You're a terrible liar, Johnny.”

“Let it go, Harry. Please.” 

It must be the 'please' that throws her, because for a wonder, she does. Grey-blue eyes that match his own study him for a long moment, then she nods. “In your own time, then. Think you can stand my couch for a few days?”

“Better than the alternative,” he says, scalding his throat with tea once more.

He left a note for Sherlock before he left, propped against the microscope:  _Family emergency. Will be at Harry's._ But of course, that wasn't good enough, because three hours later he gets a text:  _**Liar. She hasn't had a drink for a month. --SH** _

John doesn't answer.

He doesn't answer any of the texts he gets from Sherlock over the next few days.

_** There's a case. Meet me at the Yard in 20 minutes. --SH ** _

_** John. There's a murderer stalking London for god's sake. Hide the whiskey, tuck your sister into bed and get down here. --SH ** _

_** Anderson's making a botch of everything. --SH ** _

It doesn't mean anything. Once John might have thought what Sherlock was really trying to say was “I miss you, come home.” But not now. All it means is that Sherlock isn't getting his way, and he's pissed off about it.

Good. That's just fine.

 

John's sent his CV out to every hospital and surgery in London (except for Bart's), it should only be a matter of time before he starts to hear back. Unless, like Sarah, they all decided he was overqualified. He keeps thinking he should go back to 221B and get a few more of his things, but he can never be certain when Sherlock will be out.

On the evening of fourth day, his phone rings. The number on the phone is Sherlock's. Who never calls when he can text. He grimaces and sends it to voice mail. Ten seconds later: ringing. Voice mail again. Another ten seconds. Jesus, the man is a spoiled brat. He answers. “I'm ignoring you right now. Take a hint.”

“ _John_.” The voice isn't Sherlock's. It isn't even male. John is so startled by this that he can't place the voice at first. “It's Sergeant Donovan.”

“Sally? What--?” John's heart starts to thud painfully in his chest. “Why are you calling me from Sherlock's mobile?”

“John, there's been—an incident.”

John feels his lunch rising in his throat. “What.” _Happened_ is supposed to follow that, but his throat closes with a dry click.

“He's been shot.”

Every nightmare John Watson has ever had is coming true, and it's _not fine_. He knows, he knows too well all of the ways projectile weapons can damage tissue, bones, organs, all of the ways they can spill blood, can stop a life. He knows intimately the grotesque modern art of warfare, flesh torn, viscera exposed, limbs gone. Every horrible thing, every atrocity he ever saw in the surgeries of Afghanistan dances in front of his eyes until he feels his vision begin to swim.

“John? John, did you hear me?”

John makes himself say the words. “Is he alive?”

“Yes. He's on his way to Royal London now.”

“How bad is it?”

There's a pause. “I don't know, John. There was a lot of blood.”

He can wave that away. That doesn't necessarily mean anything. It could still be okay. _Sherlock_ could still be okay. “Right. I'll be there in ten.”


	2. Chapter 2

It takes thirteen agonizing minutes to get to Royal London Hospital. John counts each second. He thinks of every single thing that can happen to a human body in thirteen minutes. Every trauma-related complication that can spiral out of control. He throws some bills at the cabbie and sprints for the entrance of the A&E department.

Lestrade is waiting there, pacing. Before John can say anything, Lestrade grabs him by the shoulders. “Where the hell were you? Why weren't you with him?”

The colour drains out of the world and John is close to murder. “Don't. Just—don't.” The sound is low, the warning growl of a junk-yard dog. “Tell me he's alive.”

Whatever Lestrade sees on John's face, he lets him go, and takes a step back. “He's alive. John, it may not be that bad--”

“What happened?”

“You don't know anything about the case, do you?” Lestrade's tone is softer, but it still sounds accusing to John's ears. “Sherlock said you were with your sister.”

John squares his shoulders and levels his gaze. “What. Happened.”

“Someone broke into Esther Cooper's flat in Chiswick and killed her two nights ago. We thought it was random, robbery gone bad. Sherlock had other ideas.” Lestrade is speaking quickly, spitting out the facts. “He suspected the ex-boyfriend. Apparently he was right.”

_Of course he was right._ **“** That's who shot him?”

Lestrade nods.

“Is he in custody?” _Because if he's not..._

“Yes.”

John's hands relax at his sides, fists uncurling. “You said it might not be bad. Where was he shot?”

“Left side. John, I don't think it hit anything. It passed through.” He demonstrates on himself, a four-inch span just over his hip. “Here and here.”

John can finally breathe a little. “Where's the bloody doctor?”

A nurse comes out into the lobby, looking frazzled. “Is there a Doctor John Watson here?”

“Right on cue,” Lestrade says.

“That's me.” The nurse looks as if he might be weak with relief.

“Come with me, please, Doctor.”

John follows him through a few hallways. A few doors away he hears a familiar voice, and for a moment _he_ feels weak with relief. “Are you bloody idiots? I said _no morphine_. Where's John?”

John rounds the corner, and there he is, sprawled against the hospital bed gracelessly. Sherlock is grey-faced and sweating with pain, but very much alive and fighting. “I'm here, Sherlock. Just lie still, all right? I'll be right there.” He snags the nurse who brought him and pulls the man aside. “He has a history of substance abuse--listen to him about the morphine. What have you done to him so far?”

The nurse, whose name tag reads Jason, reaches for the chart by the door and checks it. “It's a clean wound. I don't think the surgeon needs to see him. Irrigation, cleaning up the exit wound... I don't think we're planning to even admit him..”

“Right,” says John. “See about a local for the irrigation. No opiates. He's a stubborn bastard. He'll manage.”

“John, what are you saying?” Sherlock sounds peevish, which John supposes is understandable under the circumstances.

“Just making sure they're doing this right,” John says. He doesn't approach the bed, although he wants to. He wants to throw himself against it and apologize for not being there. For not taking the bullet instead. Nothing has really changed, has it? Sherlock is still Sherlock, and John still needs to find his own way. “All right then?”

“Hurts,” Sherlock says, gritting his teeth as he shifts.

“You'll live.” He takes a few steps closer to the bed and stands at the foot. His words earn a pained laugh. “And,” John continues, “they'll probably release you if you can behave yourself and promise not to go running after homicidal maniacs for a while.”

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but licks his lips. John glances at the bedside table and sees a glass of water. He reaches for it and offers it to Sherlock, who takes the glass with one hand, but catches John's wrist in the other, his grip painful. “Where were you?” His voice is low and harsh. “I _needed_ you.”

John glances over his shoulder to see that the room is empty, then turns back. The sheer terror of Donovan's phone call, of thirteen minutes in a cab trying desperately to cling to hope, the sick twist in his belly of guilt, it's all too much. “You--” He almost laughs and it's like a stab in his guts. “You threw me out, or did you forget?” He wrenches his arm away, trying to ignore the grimace of pain it triggers.

“I still need you to work with me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock.” It comes out louder than he intends. He lowers his voice. “I am not talking about this here. We are going to get you finished here, and then you are going back to the flat and you are going to stay there until I say so.”

“Am I.” Despite the pain, despite the fact that he was screaming at nurses not five minutes before, Sherlock sounds so utterly calm that John wants to shake him.

“You got _shot._ ” John manages to keep from yelling it, barely. “I can't leave you alone for a day!”

“Three days and four hours,” Sherlock says. “During which time a woman was murdered and her murderer nearly got away with it.”

“That is not my problem.” A nurse pauses outside the door and John gives her a fake “everything's okay here” smile. She moves on. He turns back to Sherlock. “Why the hell did you go after him alone?”

“Because you weren't there.”

John clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. “How on earth did you survive this long?”

“Without you? Sometimes I'm not certain.”

It catches John off-guard, the calm and casual admission. He sighs and scrubs at his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Jesus, Sherlock. What am I going to do with you?”

Sherlock hints at a smile. “You're going to wait here with me until someone decides that my wounds are minor enough to let me go home—they are, by the way, I saw my chart earlier—and then you're going to convince them that you're sufficient for my follow-up care. As to the rest,” he shrugs, “you said it. I go home and recuperate.”

“You've got it all planned out, then. Next time you might want to include 'not getting shot' in your initial plan.”

“That was in my initial plan,” Sherlock says. “But an important piece of the plan was missing.” He looks steadily at John, who rubs the back of his neck and looks away.

 

In some ways, Baker Street is the last place John wants to be. In other ways, it's a relief to have an excuse to be there. It's just past dawn when they arrive. Mrs Hudson fusses over them as John helps Sherlock out of the taxi and takes his weight to walk him to the door. The stairs require some care, but within ten minutes, John has Sherlock safely settled into his own bed. It looks as if he's about to fall asleep, so John leaves him to it and goes in search of tea.

Hours later, John is dozing in his chair by the hearth when he's startled by a cry. His body still heavy with slumber and mind fogged, he stumbles to his feet and towards Sherlock's room. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed, dressing peeled back from the gunshot wound as he probes at it experimentally and winces.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“I wanted to see how bad it was.”

“You wanted--” John sighs, shakes his head, and grabs the wound dressing supplies they brought home from the hospital. “Stop. You're going to re-open it.” He crouches at the edge of the bed and pushes Sherlock's hands away. “I said stop. God, you're such a child.”

“I am not.” The sulk in his voice almost makes John laugh. He checks the entrance and exit wounds carefully, pulling away the now useless original dressing. Re-dressing the wound is a simple enough task, something he could do with his eyes closed. The fatigue and the relative nearness of slumber are making it harder than it should be, shredding his professional objectivity. Instead of gauze and tape, he feels warm skin under his fingertips. In the drowsiness of the room, it's apparent that he's taking far longer on this task than should be necessary. He's aware of Sherlock's shallow breathing—he should ask about pain levels—when one of Sherlock's hands comes to rest at the back of his neck.

That brings him fully awake. His skin tingles under the touch and an ache starts in his chest. “Sherlock,” he warns.

“I do need you, you know,” Sherlock says.

“Yes well.” John deliberately plucks Sherlock's hand from his neck and lowers it to the bed. He doesn't cover the hand with his own, he just leaves it where it falls. “You've got me here now. Judging by your colouring and breathing, you're about an hour past when you should have had your last pain meds.” He rises, knees creaking. “You should have woken me sooner.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock reach for him but he steadfastly ignores it. He hands him the pills and a glass of water from a slight distance. “Take these and go back to sleep.”

“John--”

“Not talking to you right now, Sherlock. Go to sleep.”

John wakes once more, just after nightfall, to check on him again. His back aches from dozing in his chair all day, and he's fairly certain the blood has pooled in his ankles to an alarming degree. His body creaks as he stretches feeling back into his limbs. Sherlock is sleeping fitfully when John looks in on him. He's still far too pale, but some of the greyish tinge is gone from his skin. Sherlock's kicked away the blankets again, and John can see that the dressing on the wound is still intact. Good. He isn't up to trying to dress it again. He can't be that close to Sherlock, not right now.

_I do need you, you know._

Damn him. Nothing else Sherlock could have said would have been more likely to keep John at his side. He could have said “I want you.” Or “Please don't leave me.” Or something even worse. John could have turned and left without a second thought. But that simple need. John knows he can't walk away. To be needed—that's what he's always looked for, isn't it? Even before Harry, there was their father. He never got sloppy like Harriet, but still needed someone to put him to bed from time to time, to make excuses to the neighbours. John is very good at being needed. Sometimes he's not certain he's good at anything else.

John watches Sherlock sleep, the slow-steady rise and fall of his narrow chest, and he wonders if there's any hope of escape left for him.


	3. Chapter 3

Half an hour later, after a shower and a strong cup of tea, John is considering what they've got in that might feed a resistant convalescent when the doorbell rings. He hurries down the steps, not wanting the bell to wake Sherlock.

Lestrade has an armful of something that smells impossibly good, garlic and peppers and beef making John's mouth water. Even better, a carton with six bottles of lager hangs from one hand. “Thought you might need a break,” he says.

John lets him in and takes part of his burden. “Cheers. I was just trying to figure out what there was to eat around here.” They head up the stairs.

“How is he?” Lestrade's voice is low, cautious.

“All right,” John says. He starts clearing away space from the cluttered table. “He's been asleep all day.”

“Good. That's good.” He took a breath. “Listen, John, what I said at the hospital—”

John keeps his attention on test tubes, moving them with more care than strictly needed. “Forget it. It's nothing I didn't think myself.”

“That doesn't make me any less of a shit for saying it. Look, John. Whatever's going on between you two, not my business, eh?”

“There's _nothing_ going on,” John says.

Lestrade is wearing his sceptical cop face. “Of course not. Just you fucking off to your sister's and Sherlock acting like he's about to track down the nearest dealer and buy off all his stock. Oh, didn't know about that, did you? He's been a bloody wreck.”

John's hands stop moving over the table. Keeping his eyes carefully neutral and his voice low, “Tell me.”

Lestrade rummages for a bottle opener and opens one of the bottles with a _crack-hiss_ and hands it to John, then opens his own. “If he hadn't gotten shot I was about to track you down and drag you back.”

“I'm not his keeper, Greg.” John tilts the bottle back to wash away some of the bitter taste in his mouth.

Lestrade laughs. “Well someone needs to be. You didn't know him before. I did.” He grows more serious. “You've been good for him.”

This time when John drinks, he swallows about half the bottle, and feels it warm his empty belly. Too much too fast, probably. “You know what's funny? No one, and I mean no one, ever stops for one minute to worry about whether or not he's been good for _me_.”

Lestrade doesn't answer, and John is grateful. He'd expected to hear about the cane. _When'd you last use your cane, John?_ Like that's made everything fine. Like being able to run down the street makes turning John's entire world inside-out and upside-down okay.

“I'm sorry, John.”

“It's fine. Forget it. Let's just eat. I'll go wake up His Highness.”

  
  


The three of them wind up eating off trays in Sherlock's room so that the patient doesn't have to leave the bed. They talk about nothing. Sherlock is more subdued than normal, and Lestrade tries a little too hard to make one or both of them laugh. John drinks three of the beers in rapid succession before deciding he's gone far enough down the family path.

Lestrade offers to stay so John can rest, but John knows he's too keyed up to sleep, despite the alcohol in his system. Lestrade leaves, and John lets the washing-up wait. The leftovers get bundled into the fridge, and John is tempted by one of the beers left. He leaves it behind to go check on Sherlock and take him his meds.

“You know you're going to have to start getting out of bed soon,” John says, handing pills and water over. “If you were in hospital, they'd have already had you down the hall and back.”

Sherlock pulls a face, which is almost enough to make John smile. “Fine,” he says and swings his long legs over the edge of the bed, slowly and without his usual grace.

“Right now?”

Sherlock nods. “I'm not staying trapped in this room any longer than I have to.” He tries to pull himself to his feet, and stops with a grimace, hand going to his side.

“Wait,” John says, stepping forward. “Do you want your dressing gown?” He's acutely aware that Sherlock's only wearing a pair of pyjama pants.

“Just help me,” is the reply.

John sighs and moves to Sherlock's non-injured side. “All right. Keep your left arm down. We don't want to pull too much on that side right now.” Sherlock slides his right arm over John's shoulders and presses gingerly to his feet. That's when John first realizes that this was a bad idea. He curls his fingertips just under Sherlock's arm for support and tries not to think about anything at all.

They take a step, Sherlock leaning heavily against John, relying on John's sturdiness as he always does. And John bears up, as he always does. Despite his misgivings, despite the feel of Sherlock's skin under his hands, despite having a head full of Sherlock's scent, he takes another step.

They're four steps away from the bed when Sherlock says, “John. _I_ worry.”

“What?”

“About whether I'm good for you.”

John eases Sherlock's arm off his shoulders a bit so he can look up. “You were awake.”

“Of course I was awake. The two of you made enough noise to shake the staircase.”

“It—it doesn't matter,” John lies.

“It matters to me.” Sherlock tries to turn around. “Help me back. I want to sit down.”

John's about to protest—four steps is hardly a worthwhile achievement. The look on Sherlock's face stifles what he was going to say, and he helps him back to the bed.

“Sit down,” Sherlock says. Then adds, “Please.”

John sits, not too close, his hands resting palm up on his knees. He studies them as though they are intensely interesting.

They sit parallel and still, until Sherlock says, “I am... spectacularly ill-equipped for this.”

“Sherlock—”

“Shut up. I'm only going to say this once.” He huffs like a man nerving himself up. “I lied to you, John. I don't regret—what happened. But it terrifies me.”

“I did say—”

“I'm not done yet. I'm _not_ good for you, John. I am fundamentally broken in some way. If you were smart, you'd leave and never look back. And if I—if I were a better human being, I'd let you.”

John shifts. Sherlock's not wrong. That's the hard part. He's not wrong. But Sherlock needs John, and John can no more turn away from that than he could pass by a person bleeding in the street. He tries to speak, then clears his throat and tries again. “You're the one who always says I'm an idiot.”

“John.” Sherlock turns his name into a drawn-out sound, groan and warning growl together. John looks up to find Sherlock's eyes intent on him. “You don’t want this,” Sherlock says, his voice unsteady. “I will swallow you whole.”

“You already have.” John laughs despite—or because of—the tension. “What do I have, apart from you?” It tears at him to say it aloud, to acknowledge the truth of it.

And there it lies, the truth between them. John looks away first, sick helplessness sinking in his chest. It's a small echo of what waiting to die felt like: knowing that there is no action he can take, that help will come in time or it won't. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Sherlock's hand touches one of his and he breathes out noisily. John's fingers close, but he can't look, he can't.

“John. What do you think I have, apart from you?” Sherlock's voice is soft and close to his ear. John turns towards the voice to answer and instead finds his mouth trapped in a kiss, clinging and soft. The words he was about to say are drowned.


	4. Chapter 4

John lets go of Sherlock's hand to reach up and cup his cheek instead, drawing him a little closer, kissing a little deeper. Sherlock flinches. “Ow, damn it. I can't... turn quite that far.” He straightens, gingerly touching at his injured side.

John stifles a giggle. “Sorry.” He stands up and moves in front of him, leaning down (a rare opportunity) to kiss him again. Sherlock's good arm goes behind his thighs, pinning him against the edge of the bed as John twists his hands into Sherlock's hair. They breathe that way for long moments, mouth against mouth, moving slowly. Testing the waters, still a little amazed that it's allowed, John tilts Sherlock's head to one side with a little tug at his hair and moves from his mouth to his cheek, covering one of those ridiculously maddening cheekbones with a trail of kisses before moving on to his earlobe. John flicks his tongue against the shell of Sherlock's ear before murmuring, “You were shot twenty-four hours ago. This is a terrible idea and you should tell me to go away.”

Sherlock slides both hands up the backs of John's thighs to curve around his arse, making him jump, then shiver. John can hear the smile in his voice, low and teasing. “Go away.”

“You bastard.” A breathless laugh. “I should, I really should.”

Long elegant fingers squeeze just so. “Go ahead then. I won't stop you.”

John rumbles low in his throat and dips down to bite at the side of Sherlock's neck. “I warned you. Terrible idea.”

Sherlock's hands tighten in response to the bite and John is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock's voice, when it finally comes, is hoarser than a moment before. “We'll just have to be creative.”

“Lie down.” Sherlock does, carefully swinging back onto the bed and lying back. John follows, being careful to stay on the right side of Sherlock's body. It's odd, how much more fragile he seems to John, when the only real difference is the bandage on his side. Maybe it's more what the bandage represents, what John might have lost. He tugs away his jumper before lying down, pressing skin to skin as he lies on his side propped on one elbow. Sherlock's eyes are half-lidded, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. John has never paid attention to a man's eyelashes before. It still seems a bit surreal.

They kiss again, more fervently, John stroking in a long line from Sherlock's cheek down his abdomen and back again. Sherlock's able to do little more than touch John's arm with his left hand, but seems content to simply receive whatever John gives. Only once does he make a movement to stop John, when John slides his hand over the pyjama bottoms, fingers trailing across the growing bulge there. “That,” Sherlock chuckles, “is most definitely a bad idea.” John huffs in frustration, so Sherlock adds, his voice dropping into a low caress. “For me. Not for you. Now would be a good time to take off your trousers, don't you think?” It's not an invitation that needs to be repeated. A matter of moments has John muttering irritably and trying to toe off the last thing he still has on, his socks. “Wait,” Sherlock says as John is about to return to the bed. “Stand there. I want to look at you.”

That earns another discomfited mutter from John. He isn't sure where to put his hands. “You're awfully bossy for someone stuck flat on his back.” Sherlock only gives him a raised eyebrow back: _Yes, and?_ John settles for hands behind his back, automatically falling into parade rest.

“Turn around.” And John does, because really, in for a penny, etc. He's beginning to feel ridiculous until he completes the circle and sees the look in Sherlock's eyes. When John looks in the mirror, he sees not such a bad looking fellow. Mostly fit, maybe a little bit past his prime, but passable enough. That's not what he sees reflected at him now. The heat from Sherlock's eyes is a palpable thing, a force that would make a lesser man take a step back. John leans forward.

“Come here,” Sherlock says. “Kneel next to me.” As soon as John's within reach, Sherlock runs his hand up John's thigh and down around his hip. He comes back to drag one long finger up the underside of John's cock, which twitches with interest, half hard and rising. “Now show me,” Sherlock says. His voice is bottomed out, harsh. When John doesn't move, he continues, “I know you must have thought about me before. Show me what you did.”

John's eyes close. He'd rather hoped Sherlock hadn't known about those confused, furtive wanks, but of course he did. His cheeks flame with colour, but it isn't nearly as heated as the hand on his hip with its dragging fingertips. He licks his lips and focuses on Sherlock's face—nearly as flushed as his own—then slowly, so slowly closes his left hand around his cock. Sherlock's changeable eyes dart from John's face to John's hand. The second John starts to move, Sherlock says, “I wanted you the first time I saw you, you know.”

John didn't know, how could he have? All he can manage is, “...married to your work?”

Sherlock smiles at that, one of those rare, soft-edged smiles that John realizes may his and his alone. “It's a terrible marriage. Not at all what I was hoping for. You're getting distracted.”

Their eyes meet and hold. John hasn't stopped stroking, still slow, coaxing the foreskin back from the purpling head of his cock. They watch each other, one breathing in slow open-mouthed drags, the other through a smile. Sherlock slides his hand from John's hip to cover his hand, fingers and palm large enough to engulf the smaller hand, curling around it. John's eyes close and he groans. “Sherlock.”

“The minute I saw you,” Sherlock says. “I wanted to make you mine right there on the laboratory floor. _Mine._ ” John's hand tightens, or maybe it's Sherlock's, and the rhythm picks up in time with the words.

“You're lying,” John says with a breathless laugh. “You did not.”

Sherlock struggles, winces, but wrestles himself into a sitting position and leans against John's right shoulder, breathing against his neck before pressing teeth into the muscles where John's arm meets his body. “I would never lie about how much I want you.”

“Jesus,” John says as his hips jerk in response. His breathing is growing ragged. Sherlock lifts John's hand away and turns it palm up in his own. His eyes lifting to meet John's again, he deliberately and slowly trails his tongue up the centre of John's palm, dampening the skin. John's breath catches at the back of his throat and his eyes flutter closed. Sherlock closes both their hands around John's cock, fingers entwined. He takes over the lead and nuzzles at John's neck.

They sway together, moving with the momentum of pushing and pulling hands. John puts his right arm around Sherlock's mid-section, pressing kisses wherever his mouth can reach, gasping into each stroke. “God, just like that.”

“I know. Why do you think I wanted to watch you?”

“Fast learner,” John breathes, before his voice breaks off into low moan.

“John, kiss me.” There's a soft urgency to the words. “I want you to kiss me when you come for me.” The request alone is almost enough to finish him, a jolt down his spine and through his hips. He blindly reaches for Sherlock's mouth, fumbling until they connect clumsy and open-mouthed, straining for the same conclusion. Tongues slide and hands slide, becoming more and more frantic until kissing is nothing but panting and murmuring against each other's mouths, encouragement and a string of heated blasphemies. For the second time in his life, John finds a man's name on his lips at orgasm, this time barely spoken before the sound is swallowed by the man himself.

Their gentle sway turns into desperate clinging, kisses continuing long into the afterglow. John fumbles over the edge of the bed for his discarded undershirt and tries to wipe hands and his belly as Sherlock keeps trying to kiss him. He laughs. “Wait, will you? Just a minute.” John unfolds his legs and curls against the bed, drawing Sherlock down next to him. “Come here.” A few minutes of squirming and the reward is a twined, snuggled position comfortable enough for them both. After a breath or two, John chuckles.

“What?”

“The minute you saw me,” John says. He can't quite believe that.

“Well to be fair, I had just come from spending time with a riding crop.” John can hear barely suppressed laughter and he wants nothing more than to draw it out.

“I never learned how to ride,” he says, pressing his chin into Sherlock's shoulder. The wicked smile he gets in return steals all coherent thought.

“You'd better learn.”

Their eyes meet and for John it is like standing in that laboratory again, face to face with something he never expected, never even knew to hope for. In that moment, he sees just how easily he could give up everything for this man—sees how in many ways he already has. He sees just how easily he could lose himself entirely. He takes a deep breath, knowing he's got one chance to draw a line. “Sherlock, you cannot—and I mean you can _not—_ shut me out again.” He forces each word out, not because he wants to, but because self-preservation demands it. “No decisions for my own good, no keeping me in the dark. No pulling away from me without telling me why.” John considers his next words, then adds, “If you do, I won't come back again.”

Pale eyes meet dark grey, striking sparks in the stillness of the room. Sherlock opens his mouth and John shakes his head. “Not negotiable.”

Sherlock closes his mouth. Then nods, faint smile quirking one corner of his mouth. “Does that mean you're coming back now?”

John kisses the quirked corner of that mouth. “I suppose it does. I don't think Harry would be thrilled to find us snogging on her couch.”

That finally earns the laugh John was hoping for, full and open, the sound that first trapped him at the base of the stairs of 221B—the sound that first told him he was home.


End file.
